


Illyria's Storm

by Parker4131970



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Storms, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:06:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parker4131970/pseuds/Parker4131970
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You contemplate ending your existence, Wesley? You are not usually this self-destructive.” She observed in a dry, rational voice. There was so much to say that he couldn't speak at all.</p><p>Short read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illyria's Storm

 

“We sat side by side in the morning light and looked out at the future together.”  
~ Brian Andres ~

 

Wesley unlocked the door and opened it just enough to step inside. It smelled like her; like sweet pea lotion. He shuffled through the small living room to Fred's bedroom. He seldom kindled the fire of his own misery by going in there, but tonight he needed a night to remember. Everything that summed up who Winifred “Fred” Burkle was, set collecting dust in her miniscule sleeping chamber. Wesley had thought the apartment too small when she'd first shown it to him.

“Nah, compared to my cave in Pylea this is humongous, plus there's running water and a microwave for my tacos.” Fred had playfully slapped Wes' arm He would have given nearly anything to relive that day.

Every piece of her clothing still hung in the closet above her shoes. Fred had so many shoes. There were ballet flats, wedges, cowboy boots; anything a girl could want to wear. Wesley touched the cuff of her denim jacket and held it to his face. It reminded him of Fred. Purple satin ribbon trimmed the cuffs of the faded but durable material. Wes remembered the last time Fred had worn that jacket. She'd worn it with her cowboy boots and a blue, flowered sundress. The thought of it made his chest ache. A tear from his never-ending supply fell down his scruffy cheek. Fred would have hated seeing him so broken and Wes knew it, but it didn't change the stubborn truth. His heart ached the hundred times a day he was reminded of how Fred was taken from this world.

Wesley pulled the jacket out of Fred's closet and sat down on the bed. He let all the tears he'd been holding back all day flow. Wet splotches hit the thin denim as the broken wretch let his grief and anger flow out of him. The former Watcher sank to his knees on the carpet at the foot of Fred's bed, her jacket grasped tightly in his calloused fists. Nothing could fill the darkness or the emptiness her death had left. The man couldn't live with her and he couldn't go on living without her. He wanted it all to stop, wanted to let go of the pain and despair.

“Why must all the sources of love in my life be taken from me? Why am I denied all comfort in this world?” Wesley spoke aloud to the vacant apartment. All he wanted was to be with Fred, the Fred he'd loved since rescuing her from Pylea, the hell dimension. Wesley pulled out the Glock .9mm from a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. The gun was well worn and polished to a high shine. The once bashful, nerdy Watcher had been forced to become good with all manner of weapons since coming to America. The compact killing machine weighed so little in Wes' hand. It weighed so much less than the burden in his heart. He thought of how easy it would be to pull the trigger and go to Fred.

**At Wolfram and Hart**

Illyria lay on her cot in her quarters at Wolfram and Hart. The smell of a coming storm filled her borrowed lungs. She could hear the heart beats of every living creature in the building. The warrior could sense the non-living ones too. Angel sat at his desk thinking about Buffy and Cordelia in turn. Spike too sat somewhere contemplating former loves. Lorne had dozed off and was dreaming of having a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The person who intrigued Illyria, if anyone did, was Wesley, who had left for the day some two hours before. She supposed he had slunk off to drink himself numb and to wallow in his own self-pity and grief. It was bothersome to her to be around Wes at times. Other times she found him a mystery and a challenge all at once. His wealth of complex emotions were the only unpredictable thing around the goddess. Each day she probed these emotions. The same stimulus would often illicit very different responses. Wesley would either ignore Fred references, lash out in anger or cave into it.

Illyria sighed lazily. She let herself be at rest, unlike her usual restless, petulant waking hours. From somewhere beneath her body's breast bone came a pang. A heaviness settled on Illyria like she'd never felt before. It was like something was being pulled out of her. The unpleasant sensation was as real to her as the full capabilities she'd once possessed. Disturbed, Illyria sat bolt upright in the spartan chamber. A voice came to her in a hushed whisper. Pleading tones echoed in the goddess' ears until she was like to go insane between them and the pang still pulling her. Frustrated, Illyria concentrated on the source of the voice and the pang.

“Wesley.” There was no emotion in the feminine but deep voice he heard. No shock or anger came from Illyria as he looked up from the Glock in his hand.

“Wonderful, all the incentive I need to pull the trigger.” Wes swore under his breath. Illyria cocked her head to one side, puzzled. The pangs had subsided and the voice had completely stopped. Wesley gritted his teeth as he looked at the defiled shell of his love.

“You contemplate ending your existence, Wesley? You are not usually this self-destructive.” She observed in a dry, rational voice. There was so much to say that he couldn't speak at all.

“Has your attachment to your companions become that strained?” Illyria walked to the dresser where a group snapshot sat on the corner. She peered into each of the familiar faces. There was Cordelia's million dollar smile, Gunn's self-assured eyebrow cock, Angel's brooding good looks, Lorne's greeness, Fred's simple, innocent smile and Wes' shy one. The lobby of the Hyperion looked so inviting. Illyria knew from Fred's memories that the picture was taken a few months before Wesley betrayed Angel over Connor. It was before Cordy was taken and before Fred and Gunn had begun their relationship. Before Gunn, Fred had had a soft spot for Wesley, but kept it to herself because she wasn't sure of his feelings for her. It was juvenile and stupid. Human emotions were always so in Illyria's opinion. Still, her host's body still felt an unshakable link to Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

“Existence, that is all I have, is my existence. I exist, barely, and that is all. I no longer have a profession; having failed as a Watcher. My family won't acknowledge me, I hate someone who once was a dear friend, and you stand there, calmly analyzing the reasons behind why I wish to fade into nothingness.” Wesley smiled bitterly, tears welling in his graying blue eyes. Pain in his voice would have moved the coldest hearted mortal. The haunting images surrounded Wes as he spoke. There could never be children or a house with a dog standing by the white picket fence. Wesley had lost more than just Fred; he'd lost what might have been.

“This liquid, whiskey, you drink to ease the pain, it makes you despondent. Life should be lived as if walking on a lightning streak. Use the pain to your advantage.” Illyria held the flask Wesley carried so often these days. She could smell it's sickeningly sweet aroma through the stainless steel container.

“Nothing but death would be to my advantage.” Wesley's eyes dulled as he took a firm grip on the Glock.

Blood and brain matter splattered against the wall and over Illyria's right side. Her body convulsed in pain. White-hot pain surged through the goddess' body as Wesley died. It passed quickly, but left her shaken. It shocked her that he'd actually done it. Wes' limp body lay face down on the floor at Illyria's feet. Crimson-black blood pooled in the space between them.

“Neither of us would have wished for this.” Thought the blue warrior-goddess. She made her way to Wolfram and Hart. Angel sat at his desk in total darkness. Demons, good and bad, played across the screen of his memory. He vaguely felt Illyria appear in the room. The vampire's keen senses saw her stride to his desk with her usual quick, efficient pace.

“Wesley is dead.” Illyria stated. Angel leaned forward, not bothering to turn on a light.

“How?” He asked, the inflection in his voice one of anger.

“By his own hand, his gun.” Illyria answered, cocking her head.

“Where?” The souled vampire rose swiftly to his feet.

“Fred's apartment.” She responded automatically. Angel picked up the phone to raise the alarm. His face grew more sorrowful and determined than usual.

“Cannot Wesley be repaired?” Illyria asked with no concern, only morbid fascination.

“No, humans aren't as physically resilient as their spirits are.” Angel looked at her with contempt. He missed the person who had owned Illyria's body before she invaded. Those chocolate eyes and silly smile reminded Angel what the fight was all about.

“Then he will be replaced?” Illyria pursued her line of questioning, much to Angel's ire.

“No, my team members, my friends are not _“replaceable”_. There are no junkyards where you can get a different one if the original breaks.” Angel leaned against the desk, his hands in fists. The vampire's face was one of restrained rage. He knew it wouldn't do any good and just then wasn't the time. Their eyes met for a moment.

“It is a wonder that humanity has gained dominion over this realm.” Illyria crossed her arms over her chest then moved to peer out the top floor window. Angel returned to his phone calls.

A storm that had begun to brew earlier now sat over down town Los Angeles. Lightning reached out to touch the tops of the skyscrapers. It's white-hot fingers illuminated the surrounding sky. Rain began to splatter against the glass as the warrior-goddess studied the storm. She thought back to Wesley's death, and the pain she'd felt. The two were connected. Illyria was reluctant to share this information with anyone. The one person she would have told about it was dead. Illyria could still envision Wes' limp body lying on the red, Oriental rug, one of Fred's garments still clutched in his hand. It was as if the universe was crying for him. Illyria walked out of Angel's office just as Spike walked in. She pushed by him as if he were a stray draft of air conditioning.

“Blimey, Bluebeard, don't go out o' your way for a bloke then.” Spike spat incredulously.

Illyria walked into Wesley's office. She stood before his wide desk. Everything sat in it's proper place, everything in such a British sort of way. The smell of leather book binding and his aftershave filled the room to her keen olfactory sense. They were the smells that Fred had loved about Wesley.

“This does not have to be so.” Illyria spoke before she began to search for a particular book. First she searched the desk drawers, and then moved to the vault. Finally, she used the book Wesley spoke into. The tome she sought appeared before her on the pages. 

“ _From the dust of the beginning of the Universe, I, Illyria, warrior-goddess call this to those forces untold who crafted existence. You are called upon to resurrect one whose spirit hovers near to this spot. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, born of woman, son of man, child of humankind, death holds you no longer. I call you from that empty, infinite Beyond._

_Blood and Bone_

_Spirit and Flesh_

_Reunite!!”_

 

Illyria spoke the spell with calm determination. Her lazuline eyes stared at the continuing storm. Fingers of lightning had drawn closer to Wolfram and Hart. Impatient, Illyria looked around the office for Wesley. She could not sense his essence; his core. The pangs within her ribcage were not to be ignored.

Concentrating, Illyria waited until she stood in Fred's bedroom again. Wesley's body still lay at the foot of her bed, undisturbed. His lifeless form had cooled. Illyria knelt down before him. Slowly, she pulled off her gauntlet and touched his hair. It's silkiness surprised her. The warrior-goddess remembered Fred running her fingers through his thick, sable hair as they kissed. It occurred to Illyria that she had never had anyone feel for her like Fred and Wesley felt for each other. She pondered it for a split second. There was no warmth about Illyria to love or be loved. She felt even more diminished than usual. Minutes passed as the truth sank in. Illyria felt herself so superior to humans, yet she sensed how ignorant she was.

Feeling confused and angry at herself, Illyria recited the spell again. The storm had made it's way across town. It felt like the apartment was surrounded by thunder and lightning. Illyria's strong voice rang out in the small space. Wesley's scent lingered in the humid air. Again, Illyria repeated the spell, to no good end. His soul was gone. His soul had surmounted to it's fold in the universe. Wherever the remnants of Winifred Burkle's soul then existed Wesley's quintessence had joined it. The small retention Illyria possessed of Fred's soul had known and yearned to converge with that happy and long overdue reunion.

Illyria phased back to Wolfram and Hart before anyone missed her. She stood stone silent outside Angel's office, her azure eyes surveying the hallway. What for, she wasn't sure. She just knew she didn't want to be in her quarters alone or in Angel's office with the others. There would be questions, accusations, and most of all, grief. Human emotions, up close and personal, repulsed Illyria. Besides, she wanted to feel hers in private.

**The End**

 


End file.
